


I'll Keep You Safe

by QuestionableCertainty (NanaAdder)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Illya is a gentle giant, this is a personal kind of thing that I just need to get out because i'm really into it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17617760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NanaAdder/pseuds/QuestionableCertainty
Summary: In '58, Illya was sent on a mission by the KGB to expose weapons manufacturer Elliot Blackwood, but intentionally became close with Blackwoods domestically abused wife, Margaret. Five years later, she crosses his path once more, bringing up old feelings in Illya he has been haunted by ever since.





	1. 1963

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello there! So this is an AU story which I came up with after discussing shipping stuff with a friend of mine. it's about 80% plotted, but will take a little time with updates. So please be patient, but I'll try to keep this regularly updating as much as possible. I'd give a little info on the story, but I feel like that would be spoiling the surprise, just please note that in this take illya/oc is the main drive here, and though he's kinda sorta with gaby at first, i've got other plans for her. So please, don't get upset with me regarding gaby/illya, I ship them incredibly so, but this is something very very different.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

 

* * *

Illyas _head spun, his vision blurry as he tried to overcome the ringing in his ears enough to orient himself. He could hear his name screamed-or rather, the name he gave as a cover, as small grey eyes hovered over him. Pleading. Poor boy, he shouldn't have to see this._

_His hands lifted as much as possible, grabbing onto the childs arms as he tried to speak, tried to reassure him that he wouldn't let anything happen to him-but nothing came out, and the crying boy only cried harder._

_He could feel his small charge being ripped from his grasp, the tugging being enough to force his mind into overdrive, yanking him back into reality like a tug from a rope from water to safety. Too sharp, too jolting, his head spun again before it finally cleared and everything came into clear focus. The boy screamed to him for help, but he had to be careful with the gun being held in the captors other hand._

_There was only one thing in his mind he just needed to act on it-_

_A sudden blur of a white dress and black hair flew out from the corner of his vision, the boy dropped as the woman he'd come to respect and admire became a hellion, the gun knocked across the room as she wielded raw fury against the man. She was beautiful, Illya thought, like an avenging goddess who'd finally had enough._

_There was no stopping her now as she screamed over the growing commotion in the room for him to take the boy to safety. He couldn't leave her, he wouldn't. She deserved to smile again, to enjoy the freedom that had been so cruelly stolen from her. He had made a promise and he would keep it._

_No order from her would stop him._

_Approaching footsteps came up behind him and he turned to face another opponent... and one became three... then five. But they were nothing more than pesky flies, brushed off easily due to how inadequate they were._

_A scream..._

_Bang!_

_A gunshot rang out, and he turned to face the man who held the weapon with deep seeded disgust before his eyes widened in shock. For between him and the weapon was the lady all in white._

_Familiarity set in, he'd been here before._

_A crimson patch building at her back. No. She couldn't die. Not like this._

_Another scream filled his ears, and he fell into darkness, the last he saw being her grey eyes looking back at him in apology._

* * *

Illya woke from the dream with a start, breathing heavily as he placed a hand over his chest, his heart hammering away in his ribcage. He looked around the dark room, his mind coming back into focus as he remembered where he was. Gaby slept peacefully in the bed beside him, her chest rising and falling with every breath she took, and he focused on it to help bring him back.

But in the back of his mind, there was a whisper, a gentle voice he had a hard time shaking. The memory played on as he stared into the darkness, eyes vaguely beginning to make out the shape of the armoire across the room.

He remembered catching her as she collapsed, her blood staining his hands red as he'd ripped open the dress to look at how bad she'd been hit. It was bad, he knew enough to know that, the bullet had entered near her heart, and gone out the other side, meaning that she was bleeding profusely. But shock took her consciousness from her before he could do anything, and she'd laid limp in his arms with his name whispered one last time.

Everything after was a blur of reaction, and he had some trouble recalling it fully- save for the pale form his eyes caught when he finally had time to process once more.

Shaking his head, he tried to stop the memories, and getting up he trudged with sleepy limbs to the bathroom. He wouldn't be getting any more sleep now, he knew that well enough.

* * *

"You're up early, Peril." Napoleon commented upon seeing Illya flipping through some files .

"It's nine in the morning." Illya replied tersely, his eyes glued to the page. "Not really what you call 'early'."

Napoleon huffed softly. "You're supposed to be on vacation. On vacation, 9 a.m. is early." He said before he sat down on the couch across from Illya with a coffee in hand. "How long have you been up anyway?"

Illya paused. "Three o'clock." Came his answer.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Something like this."

Napoleon sighed, tilting his head as he tried to get a good look at the file. "Is Gaby up yet?" He inquired.

"No. She drank a little too much last night, I don't think we'll be seeing her for a little while yet." The file was closed just as Napoleon caught a name written in Russian.

"Blackwood?" The name was familiar.

The look he received from Illya would have made most men backtrack, but Napoleon merely met his grace with a curious insistence. "It's not important." Illya said as he got up. "It's an old mission from when I worked for KGB."

"And you're examining it why?"

There was no answer, just the quiet shuffling of papers as Illya put the file into his case and headed toward the kitchen to make some more coffee.

"Curious." Napoleon commented.

But before he could continue poking at Illya, Gaby entered the room with a drawled out "Good morning..." which spoke oh so clearly of the hangover she was feeling.

Illya watched with a small smile as she slowly padded over to the couch and laid down with her feet in Napoleons lap. "Hmm... looks like someone got a little carried away last night." The American teased, earning a sleepy glare from the young woman.

"Is there coffee?" Her voice was a pain to her own ears it seemed as she winced.

"There would have been if Cowboy hadn't drank the last cup." Illya replied, returning to the room with a glass of water and a tablet of Alka-seltzer, dropping it in and handing the drink to Gaby, who took it gratefully. "But I'm making some more. Should be ready soon."

The subtle flirtation that usually came with any interaction between Illya and Gaby soon occurred, but Napoleon tuned it out as his focus returned to the file Illya had been reading, the name finally clicking in his mind.

Elliot Blackwood, arms dealer and weapon manufacturer. Napoleon vaguely remembered being offered the mission to bring him down before the man was dead and it was rumores he had been gotten to by the Russians first. He looked at Illya.

What were the odds that the very Russian who stole the mission out from under him was Illya? But why did the he have the file still? It had to be five years before at least-

"Perhaps Napoleon can make breakfast instead? Prove he has something to add to this little vacation other than his charm." Gaby pointedly suggested, nudging him with her foot. "And Since I'm incapable of keeping my balance right now..."

Napoleon chuckled, looking at Illya who shrugged. "As the lady wishes." He said with an ounce more of charm than usual just because of her comment before he went into the kitchen. On the way, he noticed a small photograph, and he stooped to pick it up. Realizing it had probably fallen from the file, he pocketed it, waiting until he was in the seclusion of the kitchen before he took a look.

It wasn't like reconnaissance photos, where the pictures were taken from far away without anyone knowing. It was a purposeful photo, a woman and three children playing near a fountain, the woman's face turned toward the taker with a smile of pure happiness. A little boy in the photo, who couldn't have been more than five, was waving with a large grin, his hand blurred with movement, and two little girls. Napoleon turned it over.

'Margaret, Miles, Rosie, Jenny. Vienna. 1958.'

How Curious...

* * *

It wasn't until later that Napoleon had the chance to try and find the file on his own, having sent out Illya and Gaby for a date which he'd taken the liberty to arrange. He adored both of them, but sometimes they needed a little push in the right direction-or else they'd drive him crazy with how _slow they were taking it_.

At this rate, he'd be a grandfather by the time they finally got together, and he wasn't anywhere near married yet.

With the rooms to himself, he sought out the case where he'd seen Illya put the file, and using his vast array of knowledge concerning locks and how to open them, he was in it within only about five minutes. He'd have to tell Illya how to make his cases more secure when he was done, they couldn't have anyone and their uncles raiding Illyas cases for vital information.

Taking great care to have a catalog of how everything was when he found it, he searched the case for the file, finding it curious that Illya seemed to keep this file deep in the bag, underneath everything else. "What exactly..." Napoleon found himself muttering. "is so special about this...?" he withdrew the file from earlier, opening it as carefully as possible-again, so nothing would be askew next time Illya decided to do a little night reading.

Settling in with a chardonnay and several hours of safety, Napoleon began reading.

The official documents were dated September of 1957, the dossier of Elliot Blackwood making Napoleon grimace. "Well don't you look like a ray of sunshine." he commented to the photograph attached, pulling out the picture he'd found on the floor earlier in the day and placing it back in the file before he forgot later.

"Alright, let's see what we have here..."

* * *


	2. 1957

_"Your target is Elliot Blackwood, a businessman who was disowned by his family for his Nazi sympathies and moved to Germany..."_  

 

Illyas mind went over his debriefing again, the memory playing as he was all too aware of being watched very closely by two men across the bar. The first part of his mission was completed, he'd been noticed.  

 

 _"...during the war, his family was killed, leaving him as the only heir with a very large fortune and a factory. Returning to England, he was rumored to be involved in espionage, proving a facade of making weapons for the allies..."_  

 

He'd avoided looking like he'd noticed them so far, but if he was going to get himself a job as a bodyguard he'd need to cause a scene. Intel pointed to the fact that Blackwood usually used a certain brawling type as guards, he'd need to fit that bill, and so he 'drunkenly' bumped into a large Turk and spilled his beer.  

 

 _"...he escaped just ahead of being arrested as a spy and a traitor. He settled in Poland where he changed his trade to manufacturing fabrics, though intelligence says that he's still making weapons. But no one actually can prove it..."_  

 

The singular fight turned into an all out brawl, though it ended as Illya had expected-- the Turk unconscious on the floor and him only having a few bruises. He stepped outside with a cool head, heading down the street aware he was being followed.  

 

 _"...your mission is to become close to him by any means necessary. He has a wife..."_  

 

A tap was felt on his shoulder.   

 

 _"... don't be afraid to use her for the purpose of information. She's the daughter of an Earl in England, she's sure to be of some use to us..."_  

 

He turned to see the men from the bar, one wearing a large grin.  "We saw that show back at the pub. What's your name, mate?" 

 

 _"...just remember your cover."_  

 

"Viktor Petrov."  

 

"Petrov, eh?" The man replied as he fished into his jacket and pulled out a photo, showing it to his partner. "I guess we're in luck. We've been lookin for a bloke named Petrov, a... mutual acquaintance said you might be lookin for work."  

 

He looked between them, taking each detail in on default. The smaller men simply stood there, slightly unsettled by his silent gaze-- good.  

 

"How interesting. And what kind of 'work' would you be referring to?" 

 

The men exchanged a glance with a smile.  

 

Perfect.  

 

 

* * *

 

Elliot Blackwood was exactly what Illya was expecting. For a man who there were few photographs of, to be so spot on with expectation was a surprise, even for Illya. He was a tall man in his forties, with jet black hair and skin which made him look more vampire than human. He had an air about him that commanded total obedience, for although he was a recluse, he was a man who knew very much the way of the world, and had full control of those who existed in his sphere.  

 

The first night he had invited Illya into his office for an interview, and with a friendliness that momentarily made Illya wonder whether the KGB had the right man, he asked Illya intimate questions about himself.  

 

"I like to know those who work for me as much as possible. I think it makes people more comfortable in the long run..." he'd said over his glass of brandy. "Don't you?" 

 

Illya couldn't have been more uncomfortable if he tried as he answered: "Of course." In reply.  

 

He was a month in now, the schedule and routine beginning to feel normal to him. There was nothing yet to report, he'd not been allowed anywhere that Elliot was not. It was clever, in a way, for Elliot to have him so close, for in this manner Elliot could keep an eye on his newest recruit. In vain, of course.  

 

The change came abruptly, Elliot storming into the barracks that the bodyguards used with a gun in his hand, the poor soul that Illya knew was a relatively new recruit having his life ended with a cold look and a bullet to the head. The was a deadness in Elliots eyes as he turned to Illya, boring into him as if searching for a reaction, before he plaintively said: "Come up to the house tomorrow for breakfast, Petrov. You've got a new assignment."  

 

The body was dragged away, and Illya turned to the two who had brought him there in the first place. Chip, one was called, the smiling one who had first spoken to him, while Karl was the name of the other-- The Norwegian was probably the only one Illya actually took a liking to.  

 

"Poor Eddy," Chip spoke. "He couldn't keep his hands to himself could he?" 

 

"He got exactly what he deserved. Everyone knows she's off limits, why push your luck?" Karl inquired in reply. "It's not like he wasn't warned."  

 

"Still, pretty girl like that." Chip replied. "I'm shocked he didn't do it sooner."  

 

It didn't take a genius. "What do you think new assignment will be?" Illya asked instead, inwardly jumping for joy and hoping he would be right in his assessment. 

 

"Wife duty, o'course." Chip answered with a laugh. "You've never met her have you?"  

 

Illya shook his head. "No, but why me?" 

 

"Ooh, well you see taking duty with Mrs. Blackie is somewhat of a test. See, if you pass it without getting your head blown off for getting handsy, ol' Blackie boy sees this as some kind of loyalty and you get to stay on." 

 

"The boss is very... " Karl paused. "Possessive." 

 

Chip smirked. "Only Karl here has taken the duty and is _completely_ unaffected. The rest of us simply try to look like it doesn't matter when she turns those doe eyes our way. You'd think she was an old hag by how little he talks about it." 

 

"I've not got a death wish is all." Karl replied,  prompting Chip to go after him, which Illya quickly tuned out in favor of cleaning 

 his weapon. 

 

 _"... don't be afraid to use her for the purpose of information... she's sure to be of some use to us..."_  

 

He looked forward to it. 

 

 

* * *

 

The next morning Illya arrived with a few minutes to spare, being led to a part of the house he'd not seen before. It was in great taste, antiques from all over the world collected along with famous artwork that Illya was fairly certain was stolen from somewhere. It felt like a museum, impersonal in such a respect that he found himself wondering why anyone bothered with this kind of thing. It wasn't sentimental, the former owners had died some hundred or two years ago. 

 

And so it gave the house a darkness, overcrowded by ancient history so much that there was nothing which Illya saw that was in any way restful. It was as if the house itself intruded on his thoughts, making itself an entity all its own.  

 

That was, until he reached his destination.  

 

In contrast to the rest of the house, it felt lighter. The autumn breeze gently blowing through the room, Illya took a deep breath to clear his mind of what he'd passed through. It was homey, pleasant, and the feel of the room was a relaxing place, with modest decorations which were more charming than intimidating.   

 

The sound of a cooing baby came from the floor, and Illya cautiously approached, quiet so as to first assess who he was dealing with.  

 

Tiny blue eyes peered up at him in curiosity from under black curls. A little girl less than a year old, he'd wager based on how she was mouthing a rattle. She smiled, a little squeaking sound coming out as she tapped her free hand on the face of the woman who dozed behind her. 

 

Mrs. Elliot Blackwood was far younger than he'd thought she'd be, her arms firmly holding another black-haired child who looked similar to the other, though perhaps a little older. The awake child tapped her rattle, another high-pitched shriek coming from her in glee as she giggled at him.  

 

"Mmmm..." Mrs. Blackwood stirred, her hand clumsily reaching for the baby with an unintelligible muttering.   

 

"Mrs. Blackwood?" Illya finally spoke, thinking that he should say something before he scared her unintentionally.  

 

Grey eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly, looking around the room in a panic before she settled her gaze back on him and blinked. "... Viktor Petrov?" She inquired softly.  

 

Illya nodded. "Mrs. Blackwood?"  

 

"Oh good lord, I'm so sorry! I was told by Elliot you were coming for breakfast, but I came in a little early and," she gave a nervous laugh. "I must have fallen asleep--how long have you been there?"  

 

Illya gave a small smile to mask his confusion. "Not very long." He assured, offering her a helping hand as she struggled to get up with the still sleeping child in her arms.  

 

She looked at the hand for a moment before returning the smile. "Thank you." Rocking the child for a moment, she did a quick glance around the room. "Give me a moment, please, I'm going to put her down in her crib. Do you mind watching Rosie?"  

 

He shook his head, looking down at the baby on the rug.  

 

"Thank you, I'll be right back." And with that, she disappeared through a side door, humming softly. Illya was left to his thoughts... 

 

... She was **_not_ ** what he expected.  

 

Chip had talked about doe eyes, and Illya had expected a woman of possible manipulation--she was,  after all,  married to a man who shot people when he was in a mood, it wasn't that far fetched. But to see a woman who seemed so... _normal_ ,  was **_strange_ **.  

 

The child he'd been charged with watching giggled-- _Rosie_ , he corrected in his mind-- and reached her little arms toward him with a string of babbled 'dah's and 'bah's. He crouched down to her level as best he could, hesitating for a moment before he held out his hand. Tiny fingers wrapped around his calloused ones, Rosies little eyes focused intently as she explored his hand, endearing herself to him through pure innocent excitement.  

 

The toothless grin won him completely.  

 

"Sorry if she was any trouble." Mrs. Blackwood's voice entered the room once again, and smiling back at Rosie, Illya replied as he extricated his hand from the grip of the baby.  

 

"No trouble, Mrs. Blackwood." His fingers lightly tickled the baby's cheek before he stood. "She is a beautiful baby."  

 

"Please, call me Margaret." She replied with a smile, holding out her hand to shake his. ""Mrs. Blackwood' makes me feel much older than I am, and since we are going to be in close quarters I'm sure we'll get to know each other well."  

 

Her chipper tone seemed so out of place, but he still took her hand with a quirk of his lips. "As you wish, Margaret. I only hope your husband shares your belief that I'm a good choice." 

 

"Oh he does!" Margaret replied. "Though I suppose you've heard the rumors that everyone who comes here ends up in some kind of trouble. Elliot is simply very..." she paused and searched for the word she wanted. "Protective."  

 

Illya thought to the poor guard who had been killed the day before-- 'protective' seemed too pleasant a word.  

 

"I hope Eddy didn't get in too much trouble. He's a nice young bloke, I'd hate to be the reason Elliot fired him, or made him do some kind of horrid guard duty." She went on, a wistful look on her face, hopefully looking at him...  

 

He suddenly realized she wanted to know how the guard was. Did she not know her husband had killed him?  

 

"He's... coping." Illya answered vaguely, a part of him hoping she wouldn't prod further. There was something about the way she asked that made him not want to break the bad news so abruptly. Though it reminded him firmly of something else-- "is Mr. Blackwood joining us soon?" 

 

Margaret furrowed her brow and shook her head. "Didn't he tell you? He's got some business up at the factory, it's just you and I for breakfast." Rosie made a squeaking sound and Margaret laughed. "And _Rosie_. Did you want to make sure we didn't forget you, hmm?" Her attention turned to the baby who she picked up and nuzzled. "Miles, my son, is with Elliot or he'd be here too. But you'll meet him later, I'm sure. He's five, and will probably shadow you for the first week or two just finding out what you're like."  

 

"He sounds like fun." Illya deadpanned, unsure how well such a situation would be. He'd had little interaction with children since he'd reached adulthood, most missions having nothing to do with them... he liked them, but given that he was a living weapon with psychotic episodes he didn't think he was the safest person to be around them.  

 

Margaret laughed. "Oh he is. Precocious as the day is long." She motioned toward the patio outside. "I hope you brought your appetite, Viktor, I did order breakfast for three." A playful look entered her eyes as she passed him and led to the table, which he followed.  

 

Despite his gutteral discomfort at Elliots absence, he decided it would be best to try and enjoy the meal to the best of his ability.  

 

And Margaret, as it turned out, made for very nice company.  

 

* * *

Two hours later, the breakfast had moved on to the lawn behind the house, for the sake of Margarets other daughter, who Illya had discovered was named Jenny. While baby Rosie happily embraced him -she had amassed her toys in Illyas lap before she behavior plucking blades of grass and handing them to him like gifts- but the two year old Jenny was wary of him, and kept her distance. He couldn't blame her, based on the stories Margaret told, she'd had no less than ten guards come and go within the past twelve months alone. Jenny was not used to any of them staying for very long, which probably wasn't good for the poor childs psyche. The odds for him staying on were looking better and better- from a sarcastic point of view.

The knowledge only brought Illya new concerns, chiefly on just what it was that he would have to do to be able to stay on. For the purpose of the mission, he knew he had no choice, and to be killed in some jealous spat by Elliot was simply not an option. He'd have to somehow assure Elliot that he had nothing to worry about from him.

Another blade of grass was handed to him with an adorable smile.

"Margaret-?" Illya hesitated for a moment, balancing the pros and cons of asking her advice.

"Mmmhmm?" She replied. What could it hurt?

"What do you think would be a good way to... make sure I don't... end like others?" ...well done.

Margaret sighed, her chipper countenance melting into serious contemplation, her eyes took on a sadness which made Illya most curious as to what she was about to say.

"Don't pay too much attention to me." She finally said. "Elliot is easily jealous, he thinks if any man looks at me for more than what he views as... correct, that they must be in love with me." There was annoyance in her tone. "Though it's mostly my fault, I'm a little too friendly and Elliot doesn't like that. Not in a way thats inappropriate, nothing like that, I'm more..."she struggled for the word.

"Personable?"

"Something like that. It's partly due to work, he's been rather...upset the last few days."

Upset. A mild word that seemed to have some weight behind it. Perhaps this was one of the windows Illya was looking for... "Upset?" He asked cautiously, watching as she stood and checked her dress for any remnants of grass.

"Yes, things aren't going as well as he hoped with some clients. He doesn't tell me much, all I know is that someone is interfering with his shipments." She reached out for Rosie and he handed the child to her, a squeak coming out of the baby in protest as she leaned toward Illya. "Anyway, I should show you to your room before Elliot gets back. That way he doesn't think this breakfast was a complete waste of time."

Illya nodded, following Margaret out of the room.

And then had to stop short before he ran right into her back.

"E-Elliot! You're home early." Margaret stammered, looking back at Illya quickly before stepping forward. "Where's Miles?"

Elliot chuckled. "What a welcome that is. No 'hello darling, have a long day?' Just I'm early and you're only concerned with where your son is." He replied, coming close to her with a grin. "Why don't you try that again, my dear."

Margaret looked sheepish. "Hello darling, have a long day?"

"Now that's much better, would you say so Viktor?" At this, Elliots attention turned to Illya as he stood in the doorway. "I see you've stayed for a few hours. Getting to know each other I see."

"I was just about to show him to his room." Margaret supplied.

Elliot looked at her incredulously. "What? You haven't already? What exactly have you two been up to then?" His tone was pleasant, almost playful, it was unnerving.

"We had breakfast." Illya answered, purposely keeping his focus on Elliot alone. "As your wifes new bodyguard, I did not think you'd approve of me leaving until you arrived."

"Oh really?" Elliot replied, snaking his arm around Margaret's waist with a smirk. "And what do you think of my little lark? Did she talk your ear off as usual? I suppose I should've warned you, she's talkative to the extreme at times."

Illya paused, noticing the blush on Margarets face, a look which reminded him of a chastised child who had to listen to someone discuss in front of them that they'd done something wrong. "Not at all." Illya said.

"We discussed you mostly, love. I never knew you were so elusive as an employer." Margaret added playfully.

Elliot leveled his gaze at her, his head tilted to the side. "Did you now. Well don't go spilling all my secrets, dear. Remember Stockholm."

Her smile dimmed, and she nodded, pulling away from him to bounce Rosie in distraction.

"Well I've got some work to do." Elliot continued, looking between Margaret and Illya. "Miles is currently with his tutor-don't disturb his lesson, Margaret, you know how distracting you can be." She nodded. "Now, I'll let you show Viktor to his room now. I'm sure he'd like to ... settle in"

Margaret began heading up the stairs.

"Oh and Margaret?" Elliot called out as Illya passed him. "We're going out tonight to see Von Schneider, I've already picked out the dress for you. It's on your bed, we're leaving at five."

Margaret nodded, and Illya couldn't help but notice how subdued she became, silently leading him.

Perhaps she was not so ignorant to her husband after all. But it left Illya with far more questions than answers, and he didn't like that.

 

 

 


	3. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present, Illya and the group are sent on their next mission...

"So much for an 'extended vacation'." Napoleon groused, sipping on his scotch with a grumpy look. "I don't think Waverley understood what I meant by 'extended vacation' when I handed him the leave forms."

"He gave us two weeks, Napoleon, that's more than enough." Gaby replied, folding up a dress and placing it in her suitcase. "Besides, he said this mission was urgent."

Napoleon huffed. "I put in leave for six."

"Well maybe we'll get the other four after the mission, da?" Illya added, amused at just how put out Napoleon was. "I'm sure you can negotiate it."

"I already negotiated it." Napoleon replied. "I also negotiated some extra pay, since we both were called back from our time off and we will be dealing with a very dangerous weapons dealer with experimental weaponry."

Gaby scoffed and shared an amused look with Illya, the latter rolling his eyes despite his own clear amusement.

An hour later they were in Zurich, climbing into a plane on its way to England.

Upon landing, they were greeted by the ever-mannered Alexander Waverley, who shook their hands with a 'hello and please get in the car we don't have time to lose.' Which was obeyed.

"Now I know I've interrupted your holiday," Waverley said, giving the still sulking Napoleon a look. "But I'm afraid I can't risk this mission falling into the wrong hands."

"What do you mean?" Illya inquired, exchanging a look with Gaby.

Waverley sighed. "Well, it's not...officially on the record, and since you three are still listed as being on holiday I thought you'd be the best ones to complete it." He withdrew a file from the bag beside him. "Now how much do you know about British politics?"

"You're going to have to be more specific." Napoleon bluntly stated. "There's quite a lot to keep track of."

"Sarcastic, I see you're taking this interruption well, Solo." Waverley teased, handing him the file. "1961, a cabinet member named John Profumo began an illicit affair with one Christine Keeler, a young woman with ties to the Soviets."

"Scandalous." Napoleon commented. "What's that got to do with us?"

"Well there was fear of a breach in national security, an investigation Profumo recently released a statement, and everything seemed like it was finally cleared up."

"But...?" Gaby prompted.

Waverley sighed. "But there is a lead of evidence which suggests that this leads both deeper and more involved than we realized. We tracked a member of government that had links to an organization called THRUSH. Interestingly enough, when we went through the Vinciguerra case, there was evidence leading to THRUSH as well." He paused. "Do you understand why I called you now?"

"...so this has nothing to do with a weapons dealer?" Napoleon asked, confused.

"I'm afraid not. I couldn't tell you over the phone, U.N.C.L.E. is possibly under surveillance. I couldn't take the chance." Waverley replied with an apologetic look. "Point is, this is far more dangerous. And what's more, we don't know enough on your target."

Illya motioned to Napoleon to give him the file. "Who is the target?"

"Findley Howard, son of the Earl of Sussex, he's in politics. A young man with ambition, and possible ties to our THRUSH. He was listed in the documents we found, one of the few actual names instead of codenames. He's a link at least." Waverley gave half-hearted smile, a faraway look in his eyes. "I knew his father, we served together in the war." Gathering himself together, he looked out of the car window. "Ah! We've arrived."

Napoleon climbed out first, looking up at the hotel with a chuckle. "Is there anything else we need to know before we collapse into one of the Hiltons luxurious beds?"

Waverley withdrew an envelope from his pocket. "I've arranged for you to attend a little party being thrown by Mr. Howards sister for his political win. The car will pick you up at eleven-oh, and this time I think it'll be better if you and Gaby pretend you're together." He gave Illya a wary look. "I need you to play a different part I'm afraid, I do hope you don't mind. But Ms. Howard doesn't trust men like Napoleon... something about an ex-husband she doesn't talk about. Nasty business. I'm sure Solo will be as respectful as possible."

Napoleon gave a flirtatious look to Gaby, who returned it with a childish one.

"Is no problem." Illya replied. It was for the mission. He would cope.

"Lovely! Well now that's settled, your aliases are in your rooms, and I do hope you sleep well. We all know how quickly these things tend to go." Waverley said with a grin, waving briefly before he got back in the car and left the trio at the doors of the hotel.

Finally Gaby spoke. "... well let's go then. I'm getting hungry."

* * *

"I've always wanted to live by the sea... it's always been so relaxing. I mean you're beside a force of nature that at any moment could wipe you from the face of the earth, but there's something peaceful about that prospect. Like you're coexisting with danger, and it simply doesn't touch you because it has better things to do." She looked so happy to Illya, the wide smile he rather missed aimed in his direction. But it was hazy and vague, as if he couldn't focus enough to see it. "Am I rambling again?"

Illya shook his head. "No." He assured her, looking out on the Mediterranean. "I can understand your point of view."

Margaret sighed. "I wish every day were like this. Calm. Enjoyable. I wish the children were here, Miles would run about. Jenny would probably play in the sand-"

"Rosie would eat it." He added, causing her to laugh. "Have they never been outside of the estate?,

"Never. Elliot doesn't like us going too far, I think he's afraid we'll leave." He could feel her hand brushing through his hair and he turned to face her with a questioning look. She froze, embarrassed as she placed her hands back in her lap. "Sorry, your hair was out of place, it was bothering me."

"Why do you always apologize?"

"I... I don't know."

* * *

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice brought him back to the present, the seaside of Italy lost to his memory. "We've arrived."

He was forgetting things, he didn't like that. Her smile was fading from his memory, and though his dreams seemed to be haunted by her of late, there was always something missing when he tried to go back willingly. How long until it was all gone? It disturbed him to think about, and so he left that thought where it was.

The house that belonged to Findley Howard was, in a word, impressive. There was no doubt by looking at the tall walls aged by time that he was a man with money and power, and by the people going in and milling about he was one with many many connections. After all, one could hardly call those involved with politics as having many close friends.

At the door they were greeted by Waverley, who looked as if he'd put in special effort for this event. "Glad you could make it chaps! Mrs. Drake you look lovely."

Gaby smiled. "Why Thank you Mr. Waverley. There were doubts..." She replied, giving Napoleon a look which could only be interpreted as 'I told you so'... though what she gave him the look about exactly only Napoleon knew. He merely shrugged to Illyas curious look and looped her arm through his as they entered. "You know, I'm still not used to that name." She continued on.

Despite his dislike of Napoleon being chosen to be partnered with Gaby this time, there was a curiosity in him. He wanted to see what Napoleon acted like as a 'married man' instead of all around charmer.

The covers were as such: Napoleon and Gaby were the 'Drakes' a couple on their honeymoon. He was a business executive looking for foreign prospects, one of which was Gaby herself, a German ballerina. Illya was a Russian journalist, there to report how things went on in the rest of the world. All of them were guests of Waverley himself, who used his own former title to pull a few strings.

Once in the trio spilt up, Waverley took Napoleon and Gaby and left Illya to his own devices to observe.

It didn't take long for him to recognize their target, Findley Howard was hardly hiding, he was the host after all, and was making a point of greeting everyone who was there. There was nothing outwardly suspicious about him, and he seemed to Illya as friendly as any other politician.

Well, as much as a politician can be described as friendly.

Still, he watched, milling about in a casual manner until he came up to the food table. There was little of interest there, the conversations centering on things that Illya took little note of. Golf, gossip-it went in one ear and came out the other as there was no reason to retain it. If he didn't know better, after an hour he was beginning to wonder if it was a fruitless venture. Hell, he'd even landed himselfa,seat right behind Howard himself, but there was nothing which came out of the man which set off warning bells. He only hoped that his partners were faring better.

He looked across the room to where Napoleon was flirting with a young woman, Gaby coming up behind him with a stern look before she openly chastised him. It was amusing to watch as he was forced to play the ashamed husband, apologizing for forgetting his role before he acted the rest of he scene without a flaw. She fumed, he coerced, she looked at him with caution, he flashed her a charming smile of apology. Waverley laughed to the side and motioned to them to the man he was with, a shared joke at the expense of the "newlyweds".

He'd be lying if he said there wasn't a pang of jealousy that Napoleon was getting the role he was used to. Gaby's gaze darted in his direction, and she gave him a subtle smile. That made it better.

Someones back bumped into his unexpectedly.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" A feminine voice spoke... familiar, but he didn't dare think- "Sir, are you alright? I didn't hit you that hard did I?" A laugh was in her voice as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. She was a million miles away, he needed to tell this poor woman there had been no harm done, and so he turned with a ready reply and a pleasant look.

"No harm done, I assure you..." he trailed off. Large grey eyes alight with life. The smile that was fading from his memory. She was entirely unfamiliar from the woman who haunted him, with bruises on her neck and sadness in her gaze. And yet, it was unmistakably her.

"Viktor?"

It hit him like a freight train.

* * *

Margaret had been, for the better part of two hours, trying hard to ignore the fact that Findley was on edge. Her brother was a tower of British strength, immovable and taking everything with good old fashioned English stoicism. But right now she wished he wasn't so... that. She knew he was in danger these days, he'd stepped on too many toes, and angered a lot of corruption, it was only a matter of time before something gave way and he suffered the consequences.

And so, she shared his burden. Normally. His silence and smiles were driving her mad when she knew something was most likely horribly wrong.

But she had a party to attend to, so outright confronting him was certainly off the table.

Prying her two other brothers for information, however, was not.

Between Arthur and Theodore, which one would spill the beans? Ted was entrenched in a judicial debate with Judge Harper, and Arthur was trying his hand at charming a young woman off the arm of her devastatingly attractive partner. It was working, it seemed as the woman was diverted away to be introduced to Ted. To Margaret's luck, the man seemed to be just as flirtatious with another woman, and that would make it easy to pull her brother off the man's ... going by the ring which glinted on her finger it was wife. A flirtatious husband, she never liked those types.

The woman noticed, and Margaret was delighted to see her reaction. Giggling to herself, she at least was happy to see the man had the decency to look ashamed at the chastisement of his wife, though he didn't waste time in trying to make his amends. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

"Red! Red come on over here and meet some people!"

Well if Arthur was going to invite her so boldly, she might as well go. And so she made her way to them, noting with amusement that the woman eyed her with warning.

Though she never made it, as she was suddenly pulled by the arm and halted in her progress with an overly eager smile. "Margaret, darling, what a lovely party."

Oh God, why?

"Mr. West, I didn't see you there. Enjoying yourself?"

Mr. West, a slimey businessman who was far too handsy for her liking, and soon a hand on her arm became a hand on the small of her back, the smile odious in the similarities it held to Elliots. He considered himself a great lover, but he looked much more like a slippery snake to her.

Why was she always so desirable to these types? Why couldn't a decent fellow like her for once?

Somewhere in her mind she was reminded that once upon a time there was a Russian. A wonderful, caring Russian who slipped through her fingers. Wherever he was...

"I'm enjoying myself much more now that you're here. Stay a while won't you?" She tried to smile politely but all that came out was a grimace.

"As delightful as that sounds, Mr. West, my brother asked for me already so I've got to go." She said, pulling away in one movement of disgust, not willing to turn her back on him until he was several feet away.

Mr. West pouted. "Perhaps another time?"

Never this side of hell. "We'll see."

So focused was she in making sure distance was created between them that she didn't notice the man behind her until she ran into him.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!"

He was tall, blonde, and completely immovable. The last point further proved by the fact that he didn't act like he heard her, or noticed the fact that she'd bumped into him.

"Sir, are you alright? I didn't hit you that hard did I?" She was suddenly worried there might be something wrong with the man, and if she just ignored him who knew what would happen.

And then he turned, and her eyes widened. Surely this was a trick of her mind. Her heart beat a little faster, and she couldn't believe-no, no she could. He was here. Her wonderful, caring Russian. Looking down at her in clear shock.

"Viktor?"

He was silent, staring at her with a conflicted look in his eyes. Her excitement faltered. He clearly recognized her, but perhaps he was not as thrilled to see her as she was to see him? Something inside cracked a little at the thought, and she swallowed the emotions it created. She shouldn't be surprised, it had been years after all, and she had been warned by the KGB then that agents did not become connected in missions.

If only she could say the same. She opened her mouth to apologize-

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else." He finally said, his voice gentle. "Perhaps I might take the opportunity to introduce myself?"

Margaret blinked, stammering for a moment. What was he doing?

"Illya Vasilevsky." He continued, giving her a incline of his head. In his eyes was warning, as if telling her not to press the point.

"Margaret Howard." She replied, still confused, but going along with it.

"A pleasure, Ms. Howard." Illya replied, taking her hand -which she'd forgotten was still lying on his arm- and gently pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Steel blue eyes peered at her with a smile and slight nod.

It was alright.

"However did you come by an invitation to my party, Mr. Vasilevsky?"

* * *

Illya knew that giving his real name was a bad idea, that being in contact with her was probably not good, and that allowing himself to do anything more than walk away was a mistake. One misstep and he could become compromised.

He considered leaving, simply saying something quick and walking away before said mistake could be made. It would have been the smart thing to do for someone on a mission. The mission should have been all that mattered, his cover couldn't be blown.

But he couldn't leave it like that. He couldn't bring himself to leave her like that, just his silence had caused her smile to dim. He couldn't-no, he wouldn't. And so he spoke before she could walk away, willing her to stay, and hoping she would forgive his pretense of never knowing her.

Oh he had so many questions, so much he wanted to know of what had happened in the past few years, but first...

"I was sent by Russian paper to report news in England. Alexander Waverley secured me an invitation." There was no better cover story than that which held truth.

"Alexander?" Margaret replied, muttering to herself. "He must have gotten one through Finn. I swear that man brings the oddest people to my parties." She looked at Illya bashfully. "Present company excluded."

He chuckled, resisting the urge to do more. "I'm honored you think so, Ms. Howard."

Suddenly it clicked, and much to his distaste he realized she was the sister Waverley had mentioned. Throwing a party for the target.

Well damn.

"And how are you liking your stay in London, Mr. Vasilevsky?"

"I've barely seen it."

Margaret hummed. "Perhaps you need a good tour guide? I've always believed that one should explore the place that they're visiting. Though, if you don't have the time..."

He could hear the invitation in her voice, hopeful and offering, and he wanted very much to accept it. But the mission was more important, and with her proximity to the target, it wouldn't end well.

He didn't like using her for information last time.

"Red! Bloody hell what happened to you?" A male voice interrupted, a tall young man coming up to her and grabbing her arm. "Come on! I want you to meet the Drakes."

Illya would be lying if he said that such an intrusion was welcome, in fact he frowned very clearly at the young man.

"Arthur, don't be rude." Margaret replied hotly. "If you haven't noticed I'm talking to this gentleman."

Apparently he wasn't alone in the irritation.

Arthur looked sheepishly at Illya. "My apologies, Sir. But do you mind if I snatch my sister away?"

"You haven't asked if I'd mind." Margaret complained softly.

Illya paused, taking in her annoyed look. Although he wanted nothing more than to keep her very much to himself, he had no legitimate reason to do so, and so he gave Arthur a small but tense smile and nodded. "Of course not."

Margarets gaze snapped to his, pleading for a moment. He knew she didn't want to go, but their time was at an end for now. She opened her mouth in protest.

"Perhaps, Miss Howard, I shall be able to speak with you again soon." He said before she got a word out, hoping she'd understand why he was sending her off. She sighed, her jaw ticking in irritation before she nodded with a smile that was far too foreign to her face to be real.

"To be sure, Mr. Vasilevsky." She calmly said. "I hope you enjoy the rest of the party." Then turning to her brother with a glare she motioned for him to lead the way.

Arthur beamed in response. "Thank you! Now come on, Margaret! Oh you'll like them..." and chattered on all while pulling her away.

And although Margaret's feet complied, she turned every once in a while to see if he was still there. And every time he was, watching her retreating form with nothing short of longing-and every time she turned he saw it in her as well.

Not yet, люби́мая.

When she was engaged in conversation with his partners he masked his feelings win indifference and went on to enjoy the party as she had mentioned.

There was still a mission to complete.


	4. Familiarity

Being married was probably a mixture of infuriating and amusing, Napoleon concluded. In the space of an hour, Gaby had managed to make him want to giggle at her antics as she played her role, and then five minutes later want to jump in the fountain -which looked only about 6 inches deep- and simply drown the next as she reminded him painfully that he was simply not allowed to do what he did best. Flirt. It was part of his modus operandi, and he found that marriage was very very crippling to that.

...until, suddenly it shifted. Like an emergency power system, Napoleons mind found a way to make it work, and he found Gaby to be a much better partner to bounce off than he'd had in the past. She hung on his arm at times, playfully commenting that she had to keep an eye on him, and wordlessly showing him that even in this situation one could charm much better as a team.

It was almost a pity, he thought, that she hadn't been able to do more in Italy.

The excited sounds of the young man that Gaby had allowed to flirt with her a little while before came to his attention, his insistent chattering to a very short head as he moved through the people almost puppylike.

"Now darling, our love is about to be tested." Napoleon said to Gaby, earning an amused look from her as she tried to sip on champagne.

"Whatever do you mean?" She replied, looking around the room as if Illya was coming. Now he felt bad for bringing it up.

"Arthur Howard is returning, and we know how you wandered off last time. You know how I get when you leave me alone."

Gabys face fell slightly but she covered it up with a chuckle. "Well, I'll have to make sure I don't do that won't I?" She replied, looking to where the young man and his companion were. About ten feet. "Though I think you're more in danger with who he's brought."

Napoleon followed her gaze, and landed upon one of the prettier women in the room. She wasn't as tall as he liked, but she had an elegance, and an air of confidence combined with large eyes that would drew probably any man in. All factors which made her just the type that he always managed to get in trouble with. Gaby was right, he was definitely in more danger.

She returned his look with one of exasperation towards Arthur, her glance flickering across the room briefly before she put a smile on her face, and approached with a hand extended toward Gaby with introduction.

...he knew that smile.

"Margaret!" Waverley, who had previously been in deep conversation with the Earl himself and forgotten about his agents for a moment. "How lovely to see you, dear. It's a very nice party, I can see you put a lot of...political thought into it."

"Thank you, Alexander, I do try." Margaret replied with a chuckle, turning her smile on Napoleon. "Jonathan Drake, I presume? My brother only had the manners to introduce me to your wife, I'm afraid. He said you're in some sort of business?"

Click. Illyas photograph of the woman with the Blackwood case, albeit a few years older and without a haunted look in her eyes . What a coincidence.

"Yes well-" Napoleon started and stopped motioning to where Arthur was ceaselessly talking to Gaby who sighed. "Is he always like this?"

Margaret shook her head and rolled her eyes. "He only gets like this when he's excited and nervous-would you like some help?"

It couldn't hurt. "If you would be so kind." Napoleon replied, flashing Margaret a disarming smile...

But instead of charming her, she only raised a brow, giving a hum of disapproval before she gently tugged on Gaby's arm. "Arthur, don't monopolize. I do believe Alexander had a reason in bringing them?" She looked toward the man expectantly but he was once again in conversation. "Alexander."

"Hmm? Oh! Yes right." Waverley laughed to himself. "I thought I'd bring them around to meet Findley, heaven knows he needs more business ventures and Jonathan here is a wonderful opportunity."

Margaret hummed. "Well in that case maybe we ought to introduce them to him?" There was a skeptical look in her eyes, Napoleon observed. "Father, do you mind me snatching your companions for a bit?"

The Earl shook his head, said his goodbyes to Waverley, and took Arthur somewhere to discuss some other matters... at Margaret's insistence.

Detaching herself from Gabys side, she threaded her arm through Waverleys, quiet tones barely heard between them and Napoleon and Gaby in the back.

"She doesn't sound happy." Gaby whispered to him as she threaded her own arm through his. "Do you think she knows why we're here?"

"Impossible." Napoleon answered. "Unless she's psychic, which I highly doubt."

Gaby lightly smacked him. "This isn't a joke. I think she suspects something." Margaret turned to look at them briefly before turning toward Findley Howard. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Napoleon."

"It's going to be alright." He assured her, a hand on top of hers. "I'm sure that even if she does know, she's the type that can be reasoned with."

"How do you know that?"

Napoleons gaze shifted to where Illya was, the Russian making his way into the house.

"Call it a feeling."

* * *

There was something more homey to the inside of the house, and Illya briefly wondered just how much influence Margaret had over the decorations. The antiquity of the house reminding him greatly of the rooms in Blackwoods house that she was proud of lavishing her attention upon...

Focus.

With the distraction of the party outside, Illya was able to move about in relative ease, searching behind several doors for whatever resembled an office. The target doubtless had one, and in an office he had to have paperwork, either to damn or clear him. All that mattered was that Illya find it.

And after about five minutes more he found what he was looking for. A large room, ornate and impressive, and against one wall stood a deep mahogany desk, with a portrait of a woman who looked much like Margaret hanging high above the desk. Approaching the desk in a few strides, Illya could confirm that it was indeed Findley Howards desk, letters addressed to him laying out disheveled.

With an eye on the door, he began his search.

There was little of use to Illya on Findleys desk: political letters, a few personal, several business, a note from a jeweler. Nothing which pointed toward THRUSH, the USSR, or any other questionable organizations. It seemed like a dead end.

He was running out of time, there was no doubt that eventually someone would enter the room. He looked at the desk, knowing that there had to be something he was missing-what man of influence didn't have a safe? His search shifted from paper to metal, and it didn't take long to sift through and find a small key in the bottom of a drawer. Only question was: where did it belong?

The sound of running feet approached the door quickly, and before Illya could react a child threw open the door, flew in, and shut it quickly with a click of the lock.

Illya counted himself lucky it wasn't an adult... until the little girl, not more than six, turned around.

"Who are you?"

Illya tucked the key into his pocket. There were pros and cons to this.

"Are you a friend of Uncle Finns?"

"Yes and no." Illya answered. "I do not know your uncle personally..."

"Are you a friend of mummys then?"

Mummys? Although the first thought in Illyas head was more Egyptian in nature, It took a moment, but Illya cataloged the black ringlets framing the girls face, her age, and the fact that she called the target 'uncle'. "...Rosie?"

Her eyes brightened. "You know my name?

"Your mother mentioned you." Illya replied. She'd grown so much. The babbling baby who smiled so easily had turned into a little girl, who apparently still was fond of smiling as she bounded up with a grin.

"Mummy mentioned me?" Her excitement was so innocent, it brightened his heart. "What did Mummy say?"

Illya lowered himself to her height as much as he could, a gentle smile on his face as his memory went back several years to a conversation he only now remembered in snippets. And so, with sincerety and fondness he relayed it: "She told me you were a very happy little girl, very 'giggly' I believe she called it." It was not as detailed as he recalled Margaret was, leaning over her crib, a hand on her cheek as she tried to sleep, but he didn't think the rest would be suitable for a reply.

Rosie didn't seem to mind as she giggled in response. "I am!" She exclaimed with glee. "Uncle Teddy says I'm just like mummy when she was my age."

"Your uncle would know." Illya replied, trying to picture a young Margaret running about without a care. An image he'd never seen, for even in the times she was relaxed there was a shadow over her head.

"Why are you in Uncle Finns office?" Rosie suddenly asked, her head tilting to the side.

Illya looked around the room momentarily. He didn't want to lie, an odd desire given his profession, but it still was there, and with her eyes looking so wide and accepting he felt it simply wasn't the right thing to do. "I'm looking for something."

Rosie's little face became very serious. "What?"

He hesitated for a moment, then removed the key from his pocket, holding it up for her to see. "I'm trying to help your Uncle Finn, there are some bad men trying to get him in trouble." He prefaced, motioning to the key. "Do you know what this goes to?"

"Uncle Finns cupboard, It's where he hides sweets for when we're good." Rosie answered with a nod, pointing to a cabinet. Illya walked toward where she pointed, the small key fitting perfectly. "Does Mummy know Uncle Finn is in trouble?"

"I don't know." Illya answered with a sigh, swinging the doors open. "I've not been able to speak to your mother about it." He found some papers, giving them a quick search through. Deeds, contracts, taxes... nothing. He closed it in confusion. Nothing?

"Did you find it?" Rosie asked, and Illya replaced the key to where it belonged with a 'no'. "...perhaps mummy has what you're looking for? I know she keeps some things safe for Uncle Finn. I hear them talking sometimes, something about birds."

Of course. "Thrush?" Illya tried.

Rosie shrugged. "I don't remember."

Coming around from the desk, Illya approached Rosie. "Thank you, Rozushka." He said, holding out his hand to her. "I-"

"Rosalind Anne, open this door at once!" A shrill voice suddenly came from the other side of the door, the handle jingling with impatience.

Rosie gasped. "It's Miss May!"

"Who?" Illya inquired, but her little hand was tugging at his with urgency. "Where are we going?"

"Come on!" She led him to a bookcase against the wall, her hand disappeared behind the books before something clicked and the wall moved, the child pulling Illya through the opening before shutting it behind them.

Illya found it endearing, she was definitely her mother's daughter

* * *

She was playing with him, a twenty-three year old woman playing hide and seek in the middle of a city. Though he could appreciate her desire to leave the confines of the manor, to get away from the smothering household and husband, he didn't like that she had decided to go off on her own without him.

Didn't she know he was there to protect her? How could he do that if he had no idea as to where she was?

Besides that, Elliot would surely kill him for losing track of her.

боже мой.

The sound of giggling as he rounded the corner into the square met his ears, and he followed it, hoping that it was Miles' laughter he heard and not some random child.

Turned out it was some random child.

Why did she have to do this? Things were going quite well...

The last place to look would be the shops, if she wasn't there then that left open another possibility, one he felt very uneasy to think of. Elliot Blackwood had many enemies, and while he wasn't the best of husbands, Illya was fairly certain he was better than those he did business with. The very thought of Margaret and Miles in the hands of worse men...

"Viktor! Viktor!"

Alert. Adrenaline. The childs voice was unmistakably Miles', and he moved quickly to where it was, prepared for whatever may meet him, scenarios playing in his head as to just what he'd find. Whoever laid a hand on-

He stopped short, looking in confusion as Miles waved happily from the steps of a shop, smiling widely. He blinked, watching as the boy jumped off the step toward him and catching him just in time.

"What took you so long? I've been waiting for-eva."

There was no danger. No reason for action. Though his heart still thudded in his chest with vigor, his limbs ready to spring into attack, there was no cause. The boy in his arms was perfectly fine, and looking through the window, so was his mother.

"I got lost." He mumbled back, climbing the steps to go in.

Margaret was smiling in greeting, though her brows pinched in confusion as she took in his flushed face and tense posture. "Everything alright, Viktor?"

Setting the boy down, Illya turned to her unhappily, his voice low as he replied. "I have been looking all over for you, you should not have left without telling me where you were going."

"I did...didn't you see the note?" Margaret replied. Illya was silent. "I left you a note on the table next to your bed, didn't you see it? I said we would be here and waiting for you."

A small piece of paper seemed to flutter into his memory as he ran through the morning once more. It was insignificant, and clearly not enough to have made an impression... but at least he couldn't be angry about that anymore. "You should have woken me." He still grumbled.

"After you were up so late? Heh, never. Unlike some people I actually have a decent view of sleep and that we need it." She sent him a pointed look, playful and teasing, but at the sight of him still glowering at the wall she laid a hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry for worrying you... if I'd known you'd have reacted like this, I would have taken greater care."

Illya sighed and nodded.

All was forgiven.

She smiled and winked, the playful manner returning. "Oh! We bought you a present. I'm surprised Miles kept it to himself-oh he didn't." Illya turned to see Miles with a small bag in his hand, excitement clearly thrumming through the boy as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Casting Margaret a dubious glance, he plucked the bag out of Miles' hands. It had been a long time since he'd received a gift.

"Open it! Open it! Open it!" Miles chanted, his mother chuckling at him as she too encouraged Illya to open the bag.

Long fingers withdrew the object, a pocket sized leather-bound book with a tie around it, a pencil attached.

"It's a sketch book." Margaret said softly. "I've seen some of your drawings, they're very good, and I thought you might appreciate something that can travel with you. I got it in leather so it'll last, and we had it engraved." She laughed nervously, and Illya met her look in silence. "Merry Christmas, Viktor. I'd have given it to you next week but Elliot..."

"Thank you." Illya cut in, she didn't have to apologize. Yet she always did.

"My pleasure." She replied, a look in her eyes he couldn't quite describe.

"Look inside! Look inside!" Miles excitedly broke the focus, and obediently, Illya did so, reading the engraving aloud.

"'To Viktor, the Great Russian Bear, on his first Christmas with us. This December, 1957, with our love.'" He paused, bringing the book closer for some smaller text. "'May he never leave us'"

"I had them put that in!" Miles shouted a little too loudly, followed by a series of 'do you like it?' Said many times over.

Illya, unable to fully find his words gave a nod. "Дa..."

* * *

Rosie peeked out of the secret corridor cautiously before she scurried out with Illya in tow. It was almost a pity no one else was there, or they could've had the amusing sight of the small child dragging the Six-foot-five Russian out of a wall.

"Now I've got to go." Rosie said hurriedly, looking down the hallway. "Miss May will probably get Mummy, and if Mummy is busy, she'll get James. And I like James, but I don't want to disappoint him."

"Who is James?" Illya asked with a twitch of his lips.

Rosie beamed. "He's my Daddy!" She proclaimed, not noticing how Illyas smile dropped immediately. "Or he will be soon. Mummy is going to marry him."

"Rosalind? Is that you?" A male voice came from down the hallway, and Rosie immediately got nervous.

"Got to go!" She cried, taking off down the opposite end of the hallway, leaving Illya standing there still unsure of what to do with himself.

For all intents and purposes, Illyas mind was elsewhere, trying to recall if he'd seen a ring on Margaret's finger indicating any attachment. There it was. He could see it now, a diamond on a silver band, elegant and obvious to everyone but himself.

"Oh hello there, who are you?"

Illya should have left, he wasn't supposed to get caught snooping around and yet here he was. He turned to 'James', as he assumed he must have been, taking in the man for observation, a protective side rising up in suspicion. If Margaret was to marry him, then he wanted to know just what kind of man he was...


	5. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya meets Margarets fiancee, and Alexander is suspicious of just what he wants.

James was exactly the type of man Illya would have expected Margarets to be interested in. Tall, dark haired, with a debonair look which Illya was sure fit in well with the types of people that Margaret was surrounded by. There was much of him that was reminiscent of Elliot, and for a moment Illya wondered whatever would have driven her to accept any type of proposal from this man. The amused look in his narrow  eyes, a quirk of his lips, hands in his pockets and approaching with a leisure pace.  

 

In short, Illya didn't like him.  

 

"I thought I heard Rosalinds voice in here-- little girl? Six years old, a little precocious. Have you seen her by any chance?" James spoke for the first time. All smooth Irish tones and charming air. Illya might have found it amusing, his mind absently wondering how Napoleon would react to a British version of him existing, but he was too busy being critical of those same things. It wasn't _jealousy_ , but a distinct distrust of the man across from him. Protective concern growing.  

 

"No. " he lied quite easily about it.  

 

James looked skeptical, his dark gaze observing Illya with doubt. Though behind his look there was something deeper, an analyzing which Illya recognized. As if he was cataloging everything about Illya that he could. Incongruent. The look on James' face was far less calculated than the expression in his eyes. That was even _worse_. Illya straightened as much as he could, his hulking frame barely taller than James' own. James smirked.  

 

"Well it hardly matters I guess. Thanks anyway--What did you say your name was?"  

 

"I didn't."  

 

"Oh right. I'm St. John-Smythe. James St. John-Smythe." His hand extended toward Illya in greeting.  

 

Illya hesitated for a moment before he shook the other man's hand, resisting his natural urges which were less _polite_. "Vasilevsky." Came his gruff reply.  

 

"Enjoying the party, _Vasilevsky_?" James didn't miss a beat with his manners, though something in his eyes told Illya that every move he made was not going unobserved. His name came out as normal as could be, but a hint of suspicion laced the other man's  voice. It was carefully masked dislike, and were they more honest about it perhaps they could have based some sort of foundation on their mutual distaste for one another.  

 

"It's a very nice party." Illya said, realizing the irony of the situation. They were, after all, in the middle of a deserted hallway where no one was, and far away from any party. The smirk on James' face told Illya that the irony had not been wasted on him either.   "I was looking for the lavatory and got lost." He excused.  

 

"Ah of course, it's a large house. Did you find it at least?" 

 

Illya gave a nod.  

 

"Wonderful ol' chap! Well, maybe it's a good thing I stumbled on you, lest you be lost here forever." He laughed and spun on his heel, clearly expecting Illya to follow. "I wager I'll have to inform Muffin 

 that her daughter isn't anywhere to be found. Come on, I'll help you back to the main party. Wouldn't want you to get lost in the bedrooms by any chance now would we, Vasilevsky?" 

 

"Thank you." Illya replied stiffly, following James out with slow steps which James soon matched so they were walking side by side.  

 

"Tell me, what's a bloke like you doing at an old family party? An interest in politics? Or just wanting to see the wildlife of England?" James chattered on casually.  

 

"I was invited." Illya answered.  

 

James looked at him, chuckled, and nodded. "Of course. Can't see a man like you gatecrashing. Firstly you don't blend in. Secondly..." he paused to stop before a pair of doors. "Muffin would throw you out the moment she saw you."  

 

_Muffin_. He had said it again. That casual, familiar tone and nickname which Illya didn't like. It didn't suit her. "Muffin..." he softly tried out, grimacing at the way it sounded on his tongue. It was the name of a poodle, or some small yappy dog, not _Margaret_.  

 

"Margaret Howard." James felt the need to clarify as he walked out of the house with Illya in tow. "Meg, Maggie, Peggy, Marge-- I like 'Muffin' best. It annoys her, makes her all flustered. It's _adorable_." He chuckled, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a cigarette to light it. If he noticed Illyas sideways glance of disdain he didn't let it on,  letting out a loud "Ah! There she is!" With a disarming smile.  

 

Illya was aware of everything in that moment. James' hand around on her waist posessively, his kisses in her hair, her eyes darted to Illya almost in apology, her posture stiff but pretense clearly there. She adjusted James' tie, snagged a drink for herself from a passing tray, downed it in one gulp. James ordered his drink from the same servant-- " _Dry martini, shaken not stirred_ "-- and Margaret toyed with the ring on her finger, twisting it about ( so much, Illya nearly reached out to still her hands ) as she ducked a kiss from her fiancé in the name of propriety.  

 

An intimacy existed as they looked like everything they should be, but there was something... _off_. Her nerves were making themselves known, her voice hushed but swift as she reprimanded James for abandoning her to some 'Judge Harcourt', and asked how he came to meet Illya.  

 

James explained.  

 

Illya wished their places were exchanged.  

 

"I'm sure Rosie will pop up eventually she always does." Margaret replied, de-tangling herself from James' embrace at last. "In the meantime you'll _never_ _guess_ who came."  

 

"Oh I don't know, I've got an active imagination." James replied, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Richard III?"  

 

Margaret sent him a glare. "I suppose you think you're funny."  

 

"I do, as a matter of fact. So do you when you're not so nervous. You need a drink, Muffin." James said.  

 

"I had a drink. And stop calling me that." She snapped back, looking back over her shoulder. "What time have you got?"  

 

James shrugged. "My watch broke last night, remember?"  

 

"Almost two o'clock." Illya spoke up at last, his observations now put on the back burner. Margaret looked grateful to him, though saddened at the same time.  

 

"Thank you." She softly said.  

 

"What time is this ending?" James asked in turn. "Wait didn't you say someone was here?"  

 

Margaret started, then sending Illya a glance of apology she pulled James away, though distantly the Russian could hear the conversation still.. "Yes. Waverley."  

 

There was a pause.  

 

" _No_."  

 

"Yes."  

 

"Why?" 

 

"Why does he _usually_ pop up? He said it was social and business." 

 

"Is he alone?"  

 

A glance went toward  where Illya feigned casual observation of everyone else, cautionary and concerned. Why did she look at _him_ like that? "No. He's got someone named Drake with him."  

 

"Dashingly tall bloke with a short brunette that nearly rivals you in prettiness on his arm?" James said airily. "I see him."  

 

"What on earth does he want do you think?"  

 

"No idea. I'm sure we'll know soon though." James replied, Illyas gaze turned to them, he saw James' arm go around her, this time accepted in comfort. Margaret looked worried, her red lip caught between her teeth. Unconsciously, Illya took a step toward them, but stopped short, a tender look entering James' gaze as he smiled down at her. "Relax. It'll be alright." The backs of his fingers grazed her cheek.   

 

Illya turned away, just in time to see Napoleon and Gaby approaching. Gaby smiled at him, looking through her lashes. She nearly looked like a shy schoolgirl, except the spark in her eyes was much more mature than that. His own gaze softened toward her, though he tried to keep back the sudden conflict of feelings that were sparked. The mission was the highest priority.   

 

The mission.  

 

"Well Vasilevsky, I hope you've found the kind of thing you were looking for." Waverley said casually the moment he approached. "We're about to leave and I'd hate to tear you away so quickly if you hadn't "  

 

"Yes and no. Some things I've found more, some things less than I hoped." He said, glancing back to Margaret whose attention was wholly on something James was saying. He turned back to his team. Her eyes darted to his frame, then back again.  

 

"Good, good.  You can tell me all about it in the car--oh Margaret! We're going now. It was a lovely party." Waverley said, passing Illya to approach the hostess.  

 

"I'm glad you could enjoy it Alexander." Margaret smoothly replied, offering her hand in a farewell handshake. "Your guests did to I trust?"  

 

"Oh yes." Waverley said, his gaze now focused on James. "I don't believe we've met, Mr..."  

 

"James St. John-Smythe." Rolled out of James' mouth.  

 

"My fiancé." Margaret answered dully.  

 

"Fiancé?" Gabys soft voice fell into Illyas ears.  

 

"I thought Waverley said she didn't _trust_ men like me." Napoleon added. "Maybe I can pull out my trump card after all."  

 

Illya glared.  

 

"Just a joke, Peril."  

 

Margarets gaze was waiting for Illya when he was done, and she approached with an outstretched hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Vasilevsky. I do hope you'll consider exploring London in your free time as I suggested." 

 

Illya smiled as he gripped her hand gently. "I shall. Thank you Miss Howard." He said, earning a wide grin from the young woman before she let him go.   

 

Napoleons cerulean gaze watched like a hawk as Illyas eyes didn't leave Margaret, and he politely gave his own farewells. Gaby followed, saying she'd had a wonderful time.  

 

With that, Waverley said his goodbyes, and quicker than was expected he ushered his team out of the area and into their awaiting car.   

 

* * *

 

 

The ride back began with a which debriefing which turned into silence, Waverley had clearly been agitated from the moment he entered. Quietly brooding out of his window, his foot tapped incessantly as his wheels turned and turned... though what exactly about none of them knew. Not until they pulled up at their hotel, Waverley hopped out, and they followed him to his room did they finally get their answer.  

 

A drink in his hand, he spoke at last.  

 

"Sorry for being so quiet, I've been thinking." He uttered. "Remember how I said that this mission was not official?" The room murmured their agreement. "Well apparently we're not the only ones. There was an MI6 agent at the party today." 

 

"MI6 is in on this?" Napoleon asked, clearly not liking the idea.   

 

Illya felt a sinking feeling.  

 

"Oh yes. Right in the middle of the action it would seem. My successor has put their agent as close to Mr. Howard as possible." Waverley replied, taking a sip.  

 

"How close?" Illya asked, rushing through the events and faces of those he'd seen in the day... 

 

One or two stuck out in his mind, but he needed more information. A mental file, a threat identified.  

 

Waverley didn't answer immediately. "When I was in MI6, there was an agent... talented man. Capable of anything you threw at him, and more than willing to throw anyone who was a traitor or threat to the crown where they belonged. He had license to kill, and an air which makes him capable of getting in anywhere. Making him the most dangerous, charming weapon MI6 could possibly throw at Findley Howard."  

 

Charming. Dangerous. Loyal. Close to Margaret. _Close_ _to_ _Margaret_... 

 

Gaby whistled. "And he's close to him?"  

 

"Oh yes." Waverley chuckled. "I should've thought of the idea, to be honest, it might have made things simpler. I'm sure one of you two would've done the same job splendidly."  

 

"Who is it?" Illya lowly queried.  

 

Another sip. Uncharacteristic of the normally stoic Englishman to hold back information in favor for liquor. Illya reached his conclusion but he wanted it said _aloud_. "Margaret Howards fiancé. That St.John-Smythe fellow is none other than MI6's top agent. Which means that we are dead in the water if he figures us out. It's bad enough he knows me personally. He might suspect you three, but probably he doesn't know for sure. Well..." Waverley looked at his watch. "I'm sure he does by now." 

 

Fingers tapping on his knee, Illyas posture became rigid at the thought as his mind flew like a train down a hill. The mission was paramount...the _mission_. But somehow with her entangled into it there was now a conflict. Was this agent a threat?  

 

"Good god." Napoleon softly let out. "Do you think she knows?"  

 

"If she does then she's a better actress than I give her credit for." Waverley replied. "But I don't think so. She's too loyal to her brother for that." 

 

Guilt plagued Illya at the very thought. She'd fallen for an agent playing pretend with her before in him, and he was fairly certain that James would be much more effective in it than he. He wanted to protect her, the image of her pulling away from her "fiancé" now stronger in his mind than before. He'd been blind to chalk it up to nerves, she wouldn't be fooled twice, he was sure, but if she was _engaged_ to James... just what had made her accept him? Did she know before? Was she threatened? 

 

A fury throbbed in him at that and Illya excused himself, needing to take a walk to cool his head.  

 

Wisely, none of them followed.  

* * *

 

 

When Illya returned early the next morning, Napoleon was waiting for him. The American knew he had all the pieces, but he needed them in order, and he now knew that Miss Howard, for all her smiles and politeness, was going to be much more key in this than he originally believed. He'd had Waverley acquire a file on the man calling himself her fiancée, and leafing through it he decided it was going to be an _interesting_ situation.  

 

Former military, the man calling himself "St.John-Smythe" was someone they either needed to ally with, or steer clear of.  

 

Napoleon considered both options. Allies risked the possibility of too many people working at once, and raising flags with any newfound camaraderie; it had its benefits, however, as with more came more information... given that the fiancee was willing to share. If he wasn't, it would open up a can of worms to even try and bring him into their confidence. The British government didn't trust one of their own, that much seemed clear, but if the charade had gone on this long, who knew what they planned next. While leaving him in the dark was not something they'd want should he start causing trouble. Allies was their best option.  

 

Though as he watched Illya try to quietly sneak in, Napoleon knew there was going to be more to it than that. A personal connection always made things harder, and he worried his Russian friend would be hurt in some way through it.  

 

"About time you came back." His voice rumbled, alerting Illya to his presence in the window. "Gaby was worried about you."  

 

Illya sighed, though didn't turn to talk to Napoleon just yet. "She had no reason to be.  I can take care of myself."  

 

Napoleon chuckled. "She knows that. But you did leave rather abruptly." He walked toward Illya and clicked on a lamp. "Is something wrong, Illya?"  

 

The hulking Russian turned. "What makes you ask that?"  

 

"You just seem on edge. You didn't like what Waverley had to say about Ms. Howards fiancé..." Napoleon didn't want to let on that he knew, but that card was in his deck. He'd use it if he had to,  for Illyas own good.  

 

"It's bad for the mission." Illya replied curtly. "He could become a problem."  

 

"Hmm, yes. A problem." Napoleon murmured, steps leading him closer to Illya though he stayed out of striking distance. "Kuryakin, I hope you won't see this as prying, but have you told Waverley of your previous connection with Miss Howard?"  

 

Illya stiffened. "What are you talking about?"  

 

_Tread softly and carry a big stick_. "I couldn't help but notice how agitated you were about the idea of her being engaged to this MI6 agent. What's more, I noticed the looks you gave each other when we left-- I think only Gaby has been on the receiving end of those before."  

 

Illya was silent, and Napoleon was forced to continue.  

 

"Look, I don't know the history you have with her." A lie, though the ounce of truth was only in that he wasn't sure what Illya had omitted from his report on the mission. "But if it's somethin serious it could cause more problems. Did you ever intend to tell Waverley?" 

 

"...I was considering that option all night." Illya quietly answered. "But I was told by KGB I was not to have contact with former targets again. It jeopardizes the mission."  

 

"Target?" Napoleons surprise was rehearsed.  

 

Illya swore, his Russian tongue flowing in his agitation. "Yes, target. Five years ago I took down her husband for being a weapons dealer. My handler wanted me to get close to her. I was her bodyguard until the husband was neutralized, after which I was sent on my next mission and she returned here."  

 

Feeling bold, Napoleon walked over to where he had James' file, withdrawing one from below it. "Margaret Elizabeth Howard Blackwood... former wife of Elliot Blackwood." He read off.  

 

"What is that?"  

 

"I had Waverley get me some information on both her and her fiancé so we could discuss options." Napoleon casually said, holding out James' file for Illya to read. The Russian snatched it without a second thought. "It might be useful for the mission to use your previous attachment--"  

 

"No." Illyas tone was sharp, a brick wall built in a moment at that idea.   

 

Napoleon paused, watching Illya closely. **_Interesting_**.  "Alright... we could also get close to the agent. See if we could work with him?"  

 

Illya flipped through the file in his hands, taking in whatever information he could. Napoleon had yet to fully understand the way his friend worked, but he usually filled in what gaps Napoleon hadn't thought of himself. It was what made them work so well...  

 

"Is there coffee yet?" Illya asked, sitting down.  

 

Napoleon shook his head, understanding the quiet communication that Illya intended to come up with a plan as soon as possible. "I'll order some."  

 

Illya hummed, holding a hand out for the file in Napoleons hand. "May I see that?"  

 

Margarets file. There was nothing in it that Napoleon was sure he didn't already know, and though the temptation was to push Illya into exposing more, he resisted. Without another word, he passed it over, crossing the room to the telephone to make an order for coffee. The sun was on the rise,  they would be ready for such orders he was fairly sure.  

 

"Cowboy..." Illya made him stop in his tracks. "Please allow me to tell Waverley in my own time. I don't want to force Margaret to be used in this if it can be helped, no matter what MI6 already has done."  

 

Napoleon nodded. "Sure thing, Peril." He said. He only hoped this wouldn't backfire horribly.  

 

 

 

 

 


	6. 1958

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Elliot has plans questionable plans for Margaret, his suspicions festering that she may be a spy. Karl informs Illya he knows who he is.

To say Elliot was in a fury would be an understatement. Due to Illyas information, his recent contract was left unfulfilled as a shipment of weapons was stopped from getting into Eastern Germany, his men arrested and being held for questioning. He'd stormed into the house shouting orders to his second in command, demanding to know where the leak was that information had gotten out.

Margaret was quiet, abnormally so, and made sure to keep Illya close by and out of the way of wherever Elliot might be. It was almost cute to see her trying to protect him, but her words wiped that thought from his mind as quickly as it entered.

"He's in a mood for murder. I've lost too many bodyguards to things like that."

When Illya inquired how many, she didn't answer. It was a sobering thought.

Karl had joined him in guard duty for Margaret one day, a little more fury in the Norwegians normally placid gaze than usual. They spoke with hushed tones as they waited for Margaret to wake up.

"He wants us to keep a close watch on her." Karl said. "He thinks she's spying on him."

Illyas heart suddenly dropped at the thought. "That's ridiculous. She's too loyal to him to do such a thing. And even if she wasn't, she's too smart. He'd kill her." He hissed out. Though if he dared to try...

Karls eyes gave him a once over. "Careful there, comrade. Don't get too protective against him, he'll notice." The man warned. "In any case, he probably won't kill her even if she is a spy. She's his trophy. Damage her a bit though..." the voice trailed off didn't give Illya and ounce of comfort.

"What are you talking about?" Even though he had seen the possessive behavior, he'd never seen or heard Elliot lay a finger on her.

Karl gave him a knowing look. "You'll see if you don't already know." He said cryptically.

The door opened before Illya got a chance to reply, Margaret coming out with a soft "Oh! Hello Karl."

Illya scanned her appearance, noticing a little more makeup than usual but nothing out of the ordinary. It was a chilly day, so the presence of a sweater and a scarf around her throat was not too strange, her hair was usually down.

Karl smiled at her with his return greeting, a gentle thing which Illya had never seen on him before. While Chip had spoken that Karl seemed to have no interest in the woman, it was clear to Illya that there was a care in his eyes. But it was guarded.

You'll see...

...Illya had a feeling he didn't want to see what Karl had.

On the way to breakfast, something seemed off about Margaret. She walked a little faster, arms close to her body, eyes downcast even though she tried to talk with them both. Illya and Karl exchanged a look over her head, Karl querying whether Illya now understood, Illya nodding very slightly. He'd seen these sorts of things in his mother, and it disturbed him to see it in her.

"You're late, darling." Elliot greeted when they walked in for breakfast. "Been chatting with Victor and Karl again?" The syrup in his voice made Illyas skin crawl.

"No, not at all. I'm sorry, but I overslept. I hurried down when I realized it." Came her excuse.

"Mmm... of course." Elliot replied calmly, his eyes never leaving her. "I assume the girls are sleeping as well. They get this from you, you know. I never sleep in. Too much to be done. But I suppose that's the luxury of children and wives..." he reached a hand out to brush her cheek almost gently, but neither bodyguard missed her flinch. "You get to rest while all the work is done around you."

Margaret tried to smile back when he grinned, but it was forced, and looked awkward on her face. Elliot retreated with a chuckle.

"Now, I've some news." He cheerfully started. "Given our conversation last night, I've come to a decision about Miles."

"Miles?"

"Yes, he's old enough to go to school. So I've arranged a nice little school for him in England, where he'll get the proper schooling he should have. Away from your worser impulses."

Margaret was stunned into silence for a moment, before she suddenly exclaimed "You can't!" In a desperate voice. "He's so young, Elliot. And schools don't take them til they're six-"

"It's already done, this school has made an exception as I told them that it is in his and your best interest. He leaves today." Elliots voice was calm but firm as he reached for his mail and began opening it.

Illya watched as Margarets hand tightened around her fork, her eyes intent on the vase of flowers in front of her as she clearly tried to hold her tongue. But whatever war went on, her tongue got the best of her.

"So you'll take him from me, just like you've taken everyone and everything else." She said lowly. "I always knew you'd take the children from me one day. I wonder why I bothered having them at all since you use them as a chain around my neck. We both know they're the only reason I stay, I'd think you'd be foolish to send them away... what would keep me here?"

Elliots movements halted a moment, he turned toward her with a hum of thought. Karl was tense beside Illya, and it was only a moment before he understood why.

In a flash, Elliot was up, the dishes clinking in protest on the table as he dragged Margaret up by her throat and slammed her against the wall. She groaned in pain, and Illya nearly sprang at Elliot, the vice like grip on his arm from Karl the only thing that kept him from doing so. "Don't." The Norwegian hissed through his teeth, but somewhere in Illya there was a raging beast of fury, barely contained beneath the shaking hands of the Russian agent.

"You are my wife, my darling." Elliots voice was gentle, a contradiction to the grip around his wife's neck, and her clear struggle for air. "Til death do us part, remember? You made that vow. To love, honor, and obey." He smiled, kissing her as he slowly released his hold. "You stay because you have to. The children will, one by one be sent to school, as you've shown me over the years that you're rather unfit in the job of teaching."

Margarets eyes welled up in tears, but he shushed her, smoothing her hair as if she were a frightened child.

"It's alright darling, I'm not angry with you. I simply am trying to do everything I can for yours and the childrens own good." He assured. It was sickening to watch, and Illya felt every urge to rip him away from her. "Now come finish your breakfast. The girls should be up soon, and you'll not have another chance when they are."

With that, he backed away, his hand tugging on Margaret's as he encouraged her to sit down. Her tears were quickly wiped at, and she did her best to even out her breathing.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire;Doubt that the sun doth move;Doubt truth to be a liar;But never doubt I love." He quoted, pressing a kiss to the skin of her knuckles before he set her hand on the table and returned to his meal.

Slowly but surely Margaret did the same.

As for Illya, he did his best to calm his hands from shaking, thinking of how easy it would be to end Elliot in that moment. But he couldn't, not yet. He could only watch, his hands tied figuratively by the knowledge that if he acted now he'd put the mission in jeopardy...

Though when that moment came, there was no doubt in his mind that the mission would be the last thing in his thoughts, but rather the frightened, pained, crying Margaret being strangled against the wall.

With that, he calmed down and watched their continued interactions in silence. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

A week or so later, Illya was given a day off that he took to inform his handler of the situation, half hoping that they'd give him the go ahead to bust the situation wide open. But instead he was told to wait, they didn't tell him why, just that the Kremlin needed a little more time.

With Miles gone, Margaret was more somber, all but clinging to her daughters like her life depended on it. He couldn't blame her, she had lost one child, he was certain she was afraid she'd lose another to her husbands whims. For himself, Illya was afraid of what she'd do if she did. Karl assured him that she was not one to act irrationally, but Karl also admitted that he knew she was capable of more that she didn't allow to show. For better or worse in that regard, Karl didn't know.

Entering the house, Illya was stopped by Karl who announced that Elliot was looking for him.

"Well, actually he's looking for us both. He said he might have a new assignment for us." Karl said.

"I like this assignment." Illya stated. Karl groaned and shook his head.

"I keep telling you not to get attached to Red." He chastised. "You're going to get your head blown off, Viktor. Then no one can save you, and who is going to save her with you gone?"

Illya blinked. "What are you talking about?"

Karl gave him one of his stares. "You don't think I'm ignorant that you're the leak." Illya blanched, he had been so careful... "Don't worry, I'm only one who knows. You're clever, but you were followed by Elliot more than once. You're lucky I was his choice of a tail." He smiled a little then, like he'd told some kind of joke that only he understood.

"How long so ago was this?" Illya asked, trying to recall if he'd ever seen Karl on his days off.

Karl shrugged. "A few months back. I've been assuring him that all you do is sight see and sketch. Rather boring in his eyes, but at least it makes you seem non-threatening."

Illya sighed and nodded, grateful that it had been Karl and not one of the others. But still, he had a question: "Why? Why not turn me in?"

The Norwegian took a moment to reply. "I like you... she needs you." He turned to walk to Elliots office, and Illya followed. Reaching the door, Illya stopped him for a moment.

"Thank you."

Karl smiled and nodded, opening the door.

"Ah! My favorite bodyguards. I was beginning to wonder if you'd show up." Elliot greeted, waving toward the chairs as a signal for them to sit down. "What would you like to drink?"

He was in a good mood. It made Illys suspicious.

"I don't drink." Illyas reply came.

"Brandy." Karl answered.

Elliot grinned, giving Karl his drink and sitting down with an amused look at Illya. "Well, to business then." He said. "I want you two to be my wife's permanent guard. You've proven yourselves quite well, and she trusts you both... seems like a match made in heaven."

Relief surged through Illya, but only for a moment. "We're honored, Mr. Blackwood." Karl answered for them both, his expression giving away nothing.

"Wonderful." Elliot said gleefully. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to do something for me. "

"Such as?" Illya said with suspicion raised.

Elliot paused. "I'm going to send you two on a little holiday to the south of France with my wife for a few weeks. While there I want you to tell me any and all interactions she has." He said calmly.

"You want us to spy on her?" Karl spoke, and Illya let him.

"If that's what you want to call it..." Elliot replied. "Keep an eye on who she contacts, or who tries to contact her, and report back, that shouldn't be too hard. To top it off you get a lovely holiday."

The mission and Illyas orders to stay close to Elliot blared in red letters in his mind, if he was far away he couldn't report back to his handlers. On the other turn, it could help earn Elliots favor, though Illya was fairly certain it meant bad things for Margaret. It was evident her husband suspected her of Illyas spying... an idea came to mind.

"That won't be difficult." He finally said, a small smile on his face. As a spy he knew how to adapt, and as it would look suspicious to outright try and force his staying in Poland, he needed to roll with the punches right now. "Will the children be coming with us?"

Karls head turned casually, but the look in his eyes was much more curious than he ought to have been.

"No." Elliot said with a smile. Both girls are old enough that she can manage without her mother. I've made... arrangements."

Illya nodded calmly. "When do we leave?"

"Two days."

"Is there anything else?" Karl inquired.

Elliot shook his head. "No. You're free to go."

Both men stood and turned to leave.

"Oh, there is one more thing." Elliot said, causing them to turn toward him. "The last time Mrs. Blackwood went on a holiday... things didn't go well with her bodyguard. I trust you two will keep your hands and thoughts to yourselves."

Both men agreed and were let go once more, a somber Jenny waiting for them outside the door, a woman next to her trying to draw the silent child out. Her voice was a clipped English, and for a moment Illyas mind had trouble not immediately thinking she was Margaret, her curly brown hair was in the same style, and her voice a similar tone. She looked up, and that killed the illusion. Sky blue eyes, a dimpled chin, and plump lips very much distinguished her. She smiled in greeting.

"Susan? Is that you out there?" Elliots voice called from his office. Susan peered around them playfully. "Come in here, dear. Bring Jenny with you."

"Come on Jenny." Susan gently coaxed, holding out her hand to the girl who hesitantly took it. Illya and Karl watched the little girl walked past them, quiet as ever, though her eyes raised up for one moment to them. Fear was laced in them, and Illya stooped down, reaching out to tuck one of her curls behind her ear. They didn't interact much, but Jenny quickly let go of Susans hand and flew towards Illya, gripping his neck tightly. "She must like you." Susan cooed from above.

Illya looked up at her, something in her eyes immediately putting him on guard. He looked for the word to name it but came up empty handed, whatever it was it made him not want to give Jenny back. But, he had no choice, and with Elliot asking what was taking so long he had to push the little girl into the arms of her new arrangements.

Jenny looked at him with tears brimming in her eyes, but she obeyed, and Susan carried her into the office and shut the door.

"It's good to see you, Ms. Pevell..."

Karl tapped on Illyas shoulder, and the Russian followed him. The idea from earlier played in his mind, that now may be the chance to get Margaret free from Elliot... but with the girls in his care, his captives, the idea was killed. Margaret would never leave her children with her husband indefinitely, and Illya would never have the heart to suggest it.

But halfway to their rooms, he slipped out of the house. His handler needed to know the new development.


	7. Luncheons and Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the pieces falling into place, Alexander makes a deal with James.

Margaret was awoken by the suns rays streaming through her window, a night of restlessness finally giving way to placid morning. She dressed quickly, quietly moving out of her room and knocking on James' door down the hall. It was a strange living arrangement, but one that Margaret and James kept to themselves. A moderate cottage outside london where Margaret, the children, and James could all share one roof and no one asked questions. The arrangement was necessary.

Everyone, including the children, were in the dark. And it was all for the best.

"James?" Margaret knocked softly on the door. "James are you awake?"

It was only a few seconds and the door opened, James appearing in only his shirt and pants, his hair all disheveled from likely fingers running through. A cigarette burned between his fingers, and the smell of them coming from the room likely meant he'd been smoking for quite a while. It was unreal to see him more casual, he was always so put together. So in control.

"Margaret... is everything alright?" His eyes were worried, though his expression was neutral.

"Everything's fine. I was just about to make some breakfast, and came to ask if you wanted some." Margaret said, quietly so she didn't wake the children. She peeked past him. "Have you been awake all night?"

James sighed, looking back to the room. "Not really. Just since the sun came up." He answered, moving enough out of the way so she could come in.

On the bed were a mix of papers, files, and medical supplies. Margaret filled with worry at the sight of the last, turning to look at James with more scrutiny, trying to find where he might be injured. His right hand was loosely holding his upper left arm, though he pulled it away the moment he saw her notice.

"You could have asked me for help, you know." She softly said. "I took a course in school on nursing."

James chuckled and took a last on his cigarette. "I thought about it. But I didn't want to disturb your sleep. You get it so rarely these days." He said, pushing the stub into the ash tray. "It's nothing I can't handle. Though I thank you for the concern." He smiled, fondly and affectionately. Affection wasn't usual for him, the agent having learned a long time ago not to get too attached. But it was hard not to with her.

"Well in the future... I'm happy to help." She replied, automatically beginning to put the supplies together so they could be put away.

James watched her in silence for a moment, as if balancing her offer with whatever he thought was a better option. "I shall." He finally said. "Thank you, Meg."

Margaret nodded. "What happened? If I can ask that is." A wry smile was on her face as she reached to the ground to pick up a discarded tip of a knife, blackened with dried blood.

"Someone thought I didn't get their point."

Margaret suppressed a laugh, so it came out a little less dignified than she would've liked. James joined her, approaching to take the knife-point from her fingers. "Very funny, agent man. I take it they got your point?"

"Oh yes. I told him he was making a bad decision." James replied, tossing the metal into the nearby wastebasket and taking a seat on the bed. "Someone should've told him that bad decisions always come back to bite you." The smirk on his face was evident that there was a joke that only he understood there. She'd been living with him enough to know that such comments usually had some connection with events that occurred... but exactly how, James never told her.

It was a matter of security and her safety, he said.

Medical supplies moved, she started on him. "You need to sleep. Even the indomitable need rest you know." She said, playfully pushing him back in an encouraging move to get him to sleep. He didn't move, mumbling something about needing to get things all straightened out. Her fingers combed through his hair, returning it to its normal look. His eyes closed, and she felt a little sorry for him. He looked so spent, and she was fairly certain he was, he was too spread thin between protecting her and the children and his work.

Pressing a kiss to his forehead like she would with a tired Miles, she pushed him toward the pillows again and this time he obeyed, allowing her to tuck him in for some much needed rest. With that she moved around, picking up the files so he wouldn't knock them in his sleep, though one was already on the floor and needed to be collected. So she bent down to do so...

Illyas face looked fiercely from the photograph, and she was momentarily stunned, feeling much like she had the day before when she suddenly ran into him. She picked up the folder, pausing for a moment before she opened it, placing the photograph back where it belonged underneath the paperclip. Her eyes drifted to the right, reading his name for the first time in what it really was. Illya Kuryakin.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew him?" James' groggy voice made her jump, and she looked up to see him watching her with half opened eyes. "Quite well, as a matter of fact."

She sighed, closing the file and putting it on the nightstand. "I didn't want to give him away." She whispered. "You've been so stressed the last few months that the knowledge of a Russian agent showing up suddenly would only make things worse." A pause followed as she watched James' disappointment echo into his expression. "I'm sorry. I truly am. I didn't mean to-"

"Stop that." James' voice was firmer. "I'm not Blackwood. Though keeping this to yourself - if he was a threat - would be a bad thing, you know. An agent of the KGB this could mean bad things for your brother and the possibility of the entire operation to come crashing down. Russia involved with the investigation would only mean more complications, and that this whole situation is much worse than we thought."

Margaret blinked. "... I'm sorry. I didn't realize..." Illya was no threat to her on his own, she knew that, but James was right. Whoever he was working for likely was, and she had been careless to leave him in the dark. "It won't happen again. I'm very sorry, James. I don't know what I was thinking."

James sighed, reaching out to take her hand and tug her closer as he lifted himself on that elbow. "Enough of that. I'm not angry with you." He told her, reaching his other hand out to gently touch her face, as if he were trying to smooth out her worried look. "But I'm now not the only one who knows this information. Luckily, Kuryakin is one of ours now. He works for Waverley. Though why Waverley is interested in this situation is beyond me. From what I understand it isn't official... and things done unofficially could mean there's something not quite right about it."

"... what are we going to do?" Margaret asked, wondering if she was worrying needlessly about the whole thing.

James just gave her one of his relaxed and unconcerned looks, a lazy smile on his lips as he toyed with one of her curls. "That's for me to worry about. I don't want you getting too involved in this if you don't have to."

"I'm already involved, James." She argued.

Dark eyes searched her light ones, and he chuckled softly and leaned back on the pillows. "Of course, Muffin." He said, letting her go. "Of course." His eyes closed again, and Margaret leaned over him, adjusting the blanket again and giving him another kiss on the forehead. "Margaret?"

"Yes?"

"Did things end...cordially between you?"

Margaret sighed, straightening up and shaking her head. "It's hard to say really. We were out on a picnic in Vienna after Elliot was gone. A man came up and wanted to talk to him, he said he'd only be a moment... but he never came back. An hour later another came came up from British Intelligence saying they'd arranged for me to go home and told me not to worry about him." There was pain in her face, unresolved tension and confusion before she lightened with a laugh. "Something about Russia not liking their spies being attached to Targets."

"It's not an easy job if you've got someone depending on you. It's a risk. People are more than willing to target families and loved ones to achieve their goals. That's why most organizations seek out those who are all alone in the world." James calmly explained.

"I know." She replied, looking down at her wringing hands. "I knew that then, but I had hoped... that I could've said goodbye."

James hummed and nodded, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "I understand."

She smiled softly, thankful for his response. "Goodnight James." Clicking off the light and closing the curtains, she slipped out of the room to make herself some breakfast.

"...Goodnight Margaret."

* * *

Findley Howard was a man of thought, taking time beyond time to consider and process information and what to do about it. Politics was not his dream occupation, but given that childish love of knights and brave heroes was in a world long past, a member of the class that changed things was the closest he could get. The dragons to slay were across an aisle usually, and not nearly so fearsome.

Well, not openly, anyway.

It was easier wren the dragons were Germans on a front line, and the enemy was easy to spot based on who was shooting at you. Though Findley was a man of peace, open war was easier to maneuver than politics.

He ran his hands through his blonde hair and sighed feeling very much out of his depth with a new bill in front of him. It was a lot of nonsense meant to line more pockets that didn't need more lining. From a logical standpoint it wouldn't be hard to smash, but from a technical point of view ... well that's where things got hazy.

A knock on his office door have him reprieve. "Come in."

In walked his smiling secretary, a very pretty redhead of twenty-something named Lucy Prentiss. She'd worked there for barely six months so far, but Findley hoped she never wanted to leave, having been a godsend to his lack of organization. It had been Margaret's idea to get him a new secretary after the first one quit, she'd even found Lucy for him, and Findley was grateful.

"Fin!" Her cheery voice said before she became more sober. "You've got a visitor-two in fact- who said you are going to lunch with them. Are you in or out?"

"Visitors?" Findley groaned. "Of course. The American and his wife-bloody hell I'd forgotten all about that. Yes, yes, Lucy I'm in! Well, I'm about to be out I guess. I'm taking them to Wiltons, if you need me." He said all in a hurry, though he seemed to be missing his coat.

Lucy giggled, walking over to the sofa by the wall and reaching behind it. "One of these days you'll stop sleeping at the office. God knows your back will thank you for a normal bed." She teased, holding out the jacket for him to slip into. He laughed, thanking her as he put it on before pecking her on the cheek.

"What would I do without you, Lu?"

"Lose your jacket on a regular basis. And very possibly your mind." She played back, pushing him out the door.

Findley laughed, his bright smile adding something more to his softly handsome face. His stark blue eyes filled with mirth was how he greeted Napoleon and Gaby, a more relaxed atmosphere bringing an ease to his manners which were missing the day before.

"Thanks for stopping by, I was unsure if you'd take me up on Luncheon." He said as they headed down to the street for a taxi.

"Our pleasure, Sir Findley." Napoleon answered. "When you invited us yesterday our plans were a little hazy,but we've managed to work things out."

"We're just glad that your secretary could manage to clear your schedule." Gaby added, her smile contagious as Findley smiled back. Her husband was a lucky man, he thought.

"Yes, well, she knows her way around a calendar." He joked, laughing to himself though he knew before they stared at him curiously that it wasn't a very good one.

Nevertheless, he succeeded in hailing a taxi, and they all got in.

* * *

Alexander was just having afternoon tea when there was a knock at the door. He looked at his watch, knowing Gaby and Napoleon wouldn't be back for some hours yet, and Illya was out jogging and had a key. He frowned, putting down his tea in favor of getting up to answer the thing before another knock could disturb the quiet peace that was the room. Whoever it was had better have a good reason for disturbing him.

He did well to mask his astonishment when he door opened to reveal James on the other side, an amused look on his face as he was caught with his hand raised midair.

"Bond." Waverley greeted. "What an unexpected surprise."

"Thank you." James said as he moved into the room. "I do try to be."

The door was slowly shut behind him, and Alexander stared at him for a moment. "I was having some tea, would you like some?" He inquired, his hospitality spiking up despite the fact that he should've known better.

"I don't drink tea, Waverley." James answered sharply with a scowl, reaching up to his shoulder and rubbing at it. "You should know this by more."

Waverley groaned. "Of course how could I forget. The top agent of all of the United Kingdom, who is the most British Britisher in politics and loyalty, hates tea with a passion." He replied, reaching for his cup once more and sitting down. "Well I ordered some coffee for Solo on accident, so you can have it instead if you want." He gestured to the small espresso pot across the table from him.

James didn't respond, but his lips twitched just a little as he poured himself some. Waverley took note. Black, no sugar. He knew from experience that the strong coffee Napoleon liked was probably not to James' standards, but it would surely do. He could only sip his tea in one last shred of a moment of peace. Bond on coffee. No wonder he was so energetic.

"How's Margaret?" Alexander inquired after a moment.

"She's well. Last I left her she was shopping with a cousin of hers." James answered, his bored tone speaking volumes of his opinion of Alexander's small talk. "But since we're on the subject... exactly what interest does your newfound little band of spies have in the Howards?"

"Perhaps I ought to ask you the same question. As an old friend of the family, your appearance is more than a little suspicious." Alexander replied without missing a beat. "Does Margaret know of your affiliations?"

James' hawklike eyes stared at him unblinking with a neutral expression. "Believe it or not, Waverley, my presence in her life is keeping her safe right now." He replied at last. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, your presence is because you're worried about her brother."

Alexander didn't answer.

Looking a mite triumphant, James brought his coffee to his lips. "I might even take a chance and say that what you're doing isn't officially sanctioned." He went on. "Though whether that's the desire of your superiors or yourself is a matter of debate."

"What makes you think that?" Alexander asked, calmly continuing to sip his tea.

"A hunch."

A good one, Alexander thought. "Interesting." He finally stated. "Though, you never did answer my question: does Margaret know about you?"

James sighed, torn between telling the truth so that all were on the same page, and keeping his knowledge to himself. It would never look good to implicate her, and she'd made him promise once that no one was to know her involvement. "Margaret knows my occupation. I've hardly kept it a secret from her." Not entirely the truth, but enough to go on. "But since we've established that we're both here to...help her and Findlay, I'd like to get to the reason I came here today."

"And what is that?" Alexander asked.

James put down his now empty cup. "If we're on the same side, there's no reason why we shouldn't be able to combine resources." He explained. "While I normally work alone, you've now insinuated yourself into the situation. It would be counterproductive to work against each other when we have the same goal. And more eyes and ears and boots on the ground could be useful to both of us."

Alexander studied the agent in front of him for a moment, balancing his offer.

He trusted James, there was no question about that. There was no man he trusted more in terms of what he knew James was capable of, and that James would always succeed in whatever his mission was ( or that he set his mind to ) was an added bonus. He had information, and a brilliant mind, to pass up an opportunity to put both of those to Alexanders benefit was tempting.

But he was not wholly ignorant of his younger Russian friend and his connection with the whole case. He had planned to use that to their advantage, though had not yet expressed such a desire to Illya himself. But now, with the complication of James being involved, that plan was likely off the table.

Or was it...?

"I'll have to talk it over with my team." He finally answered, knowing that throwing out of the blue that they were suddenly working with MI6 could have mixed feelings. "I'll get in touch with you tomorrow about it-"

The door suddenly opened, Napoleon and Gaby coming in. Gaby huffed, taking one look at James and deciding she needed a drink; Napoleon, on the other hand looked curious, taking in the used coffee cup with a bit of disappointment.

"Did we miss something?" Napoleon asked, looking between James and Alexander, a glass of scotch being pressed into his hand by a passing Gaby.

James smirked, looking over to Waverley as innocent as could be before he stood and buttoned his jacket. "Until tomorrow, Waverley." He simply said, giving a pretend salute to Napoleon, and sweeping out of the room with flair that made the American feel a little like a ruffled peacock.

Waverleys tea was cold as he downed the last of it, ignoring the pointedly curious gazes of the two agents in the room. There were pros and cons to this scenario, but his mind was made up in favor to the proposal.

"Alright, sit down you two. There's a change of plan, and I'll need you both to figure out how to tell Kuryakin."

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you guys think, although this is more personal project that I just need to get out, i'm curious for what those who read it think. :)


End file.
